


The Secret-Keeper

by Saucery, switchknife (Saucery)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Bad Touch, Begging, Blackmail, Collaboration, Creepy, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cunnilingus, Dark, Depraved, Dirty Talk, Edging, Embedded Images, Emotional Manipulation, Evil snape, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Filthy, Fucked Up, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hate Sex, Het, Internalized Misogyny, Masturbation, Moral Bankruptcy, NSFW Art, Non-Consensual, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Porn, Power Imbalance, Rape Culture, Sexual Coercion, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, Twisted, Underage Sex, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-16
Updated: 2005-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/switchknife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knowledge is power, but endurance is strength.</p><p>(A collaboration with the wonderful artist, <a href="http://lizardspots-blog.tumblr.com/">Lizard</a>. All the art herein is hers!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret-Keeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buffyspazz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=buffyspazz).



> Originally posted on [Erotic Elves](http://erotic-elves.livejournal.com/125568.html), for the following Fantasy Fest prompt by **buffyspazz** : "Snape/Hermione - Snape blackmails Hermione into having sex with him to keep her grade high (or whatever); I'd love something dark and borderline non-con, NOT where they end up as a happy couple later on."
> 
> Please note that while this story contains HBP spoilers, it is a sixth-year AU and is thus not canon compliant. Snape is still teaching Potions, and both Harry and Ron use the Prince's book to cheat. Anything to become Aurors, right? Oh, and I've made Hogwarts have a really strict policy on cheating. It had to be strict, to make this bunny work!
> 
> Here are Lizard's artist notes: Five illustrations; approx. 12 hours in total; tablet on Open Canvas; 3 of the pictures are NOT worksafe; the pictures total 527kb in size.

* * *

“Ah, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice was sly and sinuous, far too satisfied for Hermione’s comfort. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Hermione frowned as she closed the door behind her. She never liked visiting Snape’s office, partly because of its dank, musty smell, and partly because of the vague sense of danger she felt whenever she was here. Rows of bottles glittered like eyes on the sturdy shelves, and smoky little cobwebs hid the room’s shadowed corners.

“Well?” Snape gestured with a large, black-feathered quill. “Do sit down. You have something to ask me, do you not?”

She took the offered chair in front of his desk. It felt distinctly odd that Snape should be so civil; he did nothing but snarl and scowl during his classes, and was barely polite to Hermione as a rule. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t understand why you failed my potion today. It was the exact shade of magenta you showed us, and—”

“Passed.” Snape flicked his quill, negligibly, as if to swat a fly.

“W-what?”

“Passed, Miss Granger. I’ve changed my mind; I believe your potion more than fulfilled my requirements. _You_ ,” and here he smiled, strangely, “have more than fulfilled them.”

Hermione stared at him. What, he was going to pass her just like that? Without a quibble? Who was this man and what had he done with Severus Snape? “Sir...” She hesitated, knowing that this was a dangerous question to ask, but she had to know. No one took Hermione Granger’s marks without reason. “If I may ask, why did you fail my potion in the first place?”

“Why?” Snape tapped his quill against the desk thoughtfully, as if pondering a matter of great import. His eyes were black, flat, entirely expressionless. “Why do you think, Miss Granger?”

God, she didn’t have time for Snape’s mind games. There were at least three essays due this Friday. “I… don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, how it must hurt you to say that. To admit to something you don’t know.” Snape leaned forward in his chair, face suddenly sharp and attentive. “But I rather think that you _do_ know the cause this time as well, loathe as I am to say it. Tell me, have you ever seen an old, dog-eared copy of _Advanced Potions Making_ , one with detailed notes scribbled in the margins?”

She stiffened. Relaxed immediately, but not before she saw Snape’s eyes flash in triumph. “No, sir,” she said anyway, wondering why she was bothering to protest when it was obvious Snape didn’t believe her. “I haven’t.”

“Really.” Snape raised an eyebrow. “I find that fascinating, you see. Because I could have _sworn_ ,” and here he made a show of rifling through the marking sheets on his desk, “that three particular students scored extraordinarily high marks on my last test. One of them was you, which wasn’t, alas, a surprise—but the other two...” He waved his hand. “Let’s just say they weren’t expected to do so well.”

Hermione swallowed, but Snape only smirked at her.

“Would you care to guess the names of the other two students?”

She stayed silent; she couldn’t turn in her friends, even if school regulations demanded it.

“My, my. You’re not your usual precocious self today, Miss Granger. This is the second question you’ve failed to answer; I hope you don’t make a habit of it.” He looked at her closely, fingers stroking his quill. “The only logical reason for under-performing students to suddenly start over-performing is cheating; either they were consulting a text far more free with details than the text prescribed to them, or they had assistance from another, normally over-performing student.”

No. God, no. She hadn’t come this far to—to be dragged down because Harry and Ron were stupid enough to _cheat_.

“Weasley and Potter—the two cheaters, as you’re quite aware—have achieved too outstanding a grade on the last test for it to be entirely their work. That would make _you_ a cheater, too, Miss Granger, if you assisted them, or if you knew of their using... a certain book... and didn’t report it to a professor. Such as myself.”

“I—I didn’t! I’m not—”

“Not what? A cheater? You most assuredly are, if that red face of yours is anything to go by.”

How did Snape know about Harry’s book, anyway? “You can’t prove that there’s such a book, and I didn’t help them, I swear. I didn’t.”

“I can’t prove it, you say? Very well.” Snape stood up, stepping around the desk and placing his hand on her shoulder. She flinched. “I might believe you when you say that you didn’t help them, Miss Granger. But if there’s no such book in Gryffindor, I’ll be happily proven wrong today—because you and I are going there, _now_. Potter’s and Weasley’s schoolbags will be emptied, as will your own.”

Hermione didn’t move. Her blood had gone cold, all of a sudden, at the thought of what this meant: Snape would find that damn book in Harry’s bag, and both Harry and Ron would fail because of it. It would ruin their academic records and Hermione’s, because Hermione would fail as punishment. For not telling. For—

“Not eager to return to Gryffindor? How strange.” Snape’s palm slid from her shoulder to her neck, curling around it in something that was half-caress, half-threat—and _that_ was wrong enough to distract Hermione from the prospect of failure, to make her jerk back from his touch. “Tsk. It appears that you are a cheater, after all...”

This was... Hermione couldn’t believe it. She’d come down here to recover her marks, not to lose them, and to make Ron and Harry lose theirs as well. They’d only wanted to become Aurors, the idiots, and she’d told them not to cheat, she’d _warned_ them—

“There is one way, however, that you might escape, with both your marks and your reputation intact.” Snape moved away from her then, leaning against his desk. “I know very well that if I let you go now, you’ll return to your friends and tell them, and then that book will disappear from Hogwarts, never to be found again. I can only prove your guilt if I take you to Gryffindor immediately, not giving you any time to... erase the evidence, as it were.”

Hermione looked up at him, recognizing instantly what Snape was doing; he was negotiating with her, which was as Slytherin an approach as one might expect. All that remained was for Snape to reveal what he wanted in exchange—and now, with panicky sweat on her skin and a ruined future hanging over her like a guillotine, Hermione felt more than willing to listen. “What… What do you want?”

Snape’s mouth quirked briefly, pleased. “Ah, there’s your usual acuity. It’s very much a part of what makes you so… appealing.” Hermione felt a strange frisson of fear at that. No. Snape couldn’t mean—wouldn’t— “All you have to do is entertain me, Miss Granger, for the period of a lengthy detention, except you won’t be serving it in the standard manner.” Snape’s eyes grew even darker, somehow, and suddenly—suddenly, Hermione knew. Was shaken, shocked, rocked to the core—but she _knew_.

“No.” She was shaking her head and rising from her chair before she realized it. “I can’t believe—No. I won’t.”

“Won’t what, Granger? I haven’t even stated my terms.” Oh, that wicked face, as calm and sated as if Snape had already—

“You. I know what you want.”

Snape stepped forward once again. “And what is it that I want, Miss Granger?”

“Don’t come any closer.” Hermione tried to move back, but Snape’s hand shot out and grabbed her, his fingers closing around her wrist like a vise. “Let go!”

“You’re remarkably modest, Granger, for a girl who’s already parted her legs.” Hermione started, and Snape smiled again. “That’s right. I know about Weasley, and I know that you’re far from a virgin.” That hand of his shifted, his fingers sliding under her sleeve. “I’m not asking for your maidenhood. All I want is a few hours, a few mere _hours_ in exchange for the careers of your friends—and yours, which I know you hold most dear.”

Hermione reached for her wand, but her left hand wasn’t as quick as her right, and that was the one Snape had captured. Snape’s other hand got there first, striking fast as a snake, plucking Hermione’s wand free.

“How the mighty have fallen. The great Harry Potter’s comrade-in-arms, helpless before a Death Eater...” He tossed her wand backwards, and Hermione heard it clatter on the desk. “You’ll do what I say, or you’ll regret it; you haven’t a choice, you realize. A secret holds power, and the only way to balance a secret is with another one. I’m giving you a trump card, Granger; I’m giving you a secret of my own. If you comply with my... desires, you shall leave here with the knowledge of what I have done to you, but you won’t tell anyone, because if you do, you’ll have to confess your own secret, as well. Similarly, _I_ won’t reveal my knowledge of your cheating, because to do so would put me at risk.” He leaned closer, and she felt his lips brush her ear. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Oh, Hermione understood, all right. She stood there, trembling, filled with a rage that threatened to shatter her bones; her body wanted to fight, wanted to struggle against the ever-closing circle of Snape’s arms, against the moving, unwanted caress of his mouth. She wanted to claw his face, wanted to demand how he could _do_ this to her, how he could even _ask_ —

But she knew what would happen, then. A trip up to Gryffindor, and humiliation in front of everyone; Harry’s and Ron’s shocked, betrayed faces, thinking that she’d confessed. The knowledge that, yes, she’d had a chance at saving their careers, but had balked at it—a knowledge that would eat at her, year after year, with the words _just a few hours_ echoing through her mind.

So she stood still, drawing in a shaky breath as Snape pushed her robes off her shoulders, as he ran two palms up her shirt-clad waist, briefly touching her breasts.

“Yes.” Snape’s approving whisper slid against her neck in a hot shift of air, making her shudder. “I knew you’d understand, bright student that you are; I wouldn’t have bothered with any of the others.”

Hermione’s pulse skipped. _Others?_ No. No...

“You’ll cooperate with me, Granger, because I happen to like my partners willing; put up a struggle and our deal is off.” His fingers skimmed over her clothed nipples.

She scarcely tolerated that, ignoring the warmth that rose unbidden in her belly. But when he made to kiss her, she couldn’t help wrenching her head away. “That’s enough! You can—you can do—what you have to, but don’t make me participate in my own rape.”

“Your own—” Snape’s fingers were at her jaw, suddenly, digging into it painfully. “You will _cooperate_ , Granger. Or we go up to Gryffindor right now, and you lose this particular game of cards.” His grip loosened, sliding down to cup her breast. “I had planned to use you gently. Don’t make me reconsider.”

That’s when Hermione realized how foolish she was, thinking that she could even _resist_ —unarmed and defenseless, she was as capable of fighting Snape as any Muggle woman was of fighting a much larger rapist. She should have hexed him before he ever touched her, before—

“Don’t start panicking, now.” Snape was mouthing her neck again, unbuttoning her shirt. “Clever little Granger. Assess the situation, as that no doubt sharp mind of yours is wont to do. Admit that surrender is the best option; once we’re done you may leave, no questions asked, and I won’t be able to ask this of you again.”

He shifted away, then, observing her—and Hermione closed her eyes, not wanting to see his expression, not wanting to see anything. She was suddenly acutely aware of the straps of her now-exposed bra, its fabric against her skin—and Snape’s fingers grazed it briefly, admiringly, before retreating altogether.

“You may undress, Miss Granger. Take your time.”

No, she did _not_ want to take her time; she wanted this to be over as soon as possible, preferably _now_. But she didn’t want him to—to touch her either—

“You can do it yourself, or I can spell your clothes away. It’s entirely your choice.”

So Hermione undressed, forced to open her eyes for this—her fingers mechanical and efficient as they reached behind her to unhook her bra, as they pushed her skirt and her—her underwear—down her hips. Cool air brushed her thighs, making her shiver.

There was a long, heavy silence, and Hermione was forced to look up; Snape was still standing against his desk, his eyes on her, the back of one hand pressed against his mouth. He was still as if Immobilised.

Eventually he moved towards her again, his steps measured and purposeful; Hermione nearly reached for her fallen clothes, then, and kept herself in place by sheer force of will. Snape walked around her slowly, as if surveying purchased goods; he finally stopped behind her, curving two arms around her until he could cup her breasts.

A sudden contact of skin-on-skin—Hermione sucked in a quivering breath, trapped between the cool, careful lift of Snape’s hands and the rough brush of his robes at her back.

“Perfect,” he murmured, running a thumb across one nipple, watching over her shoulder as it puckered. “You’re as soft as satin...”

Hermione didn’t want to _hear_ that—didn’t want to know what Snape _thought_ , didn’t want to be this—this _object_ on display. She hated being invaded like this, being forced to stand and _take_ it like this, Snape’s touch cold but far too human. A horrid thought occurred to her: “How do I know you won’t just Obliviate me?” _And make me do this again, next week?_

Snape sighed in irritation. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve seen the after-effects of an Obliviate; I can’t have you wandering up to Gryffindor looking dazed and confused, with odd spaces in your memory. That _would_ incriminate me.” He seemed almost amused at her expression. “No, Miss Granger. I’m afraid I need you fully...” He ran the cool, wand-callused tip of his thumb over her nipple again, flicking it until she gasped. “Cognisant.”

Finally, he rested a hand on her back and gave her a firm but gentle push. “My quarters are through that door. As is my bedroom.”

He followed her there, and Hermione did her best not to focus on the details: the sudden shock of warm, plush carpet under her bare feet instead of cold stone, as well as the dark, luminous ebony of Snape’s furniture. Of the sofas. Of the—the bed—

“Remember that you must cooperate fully with my demands, Granger, or this little... tryst... is over.”

Tryst? Hermione dug her nails into her palms to keep from slapping him, to keep from covering herself. She knew that both actions were futile.

“Get on the bed, on your back.”

Hermione complied slowly, reluctance making her movements stiff. Her swinging breasts embarrassed her, precisely because they drew Snape’s gaze.

“That’s it.” Snape’s eyes gleamed when he saw her lying in the centre of his bed, quiet and unwillingly quiescent. “Part your legs.”

_God, no. Not..._

“Part your _legs_ , girl. Lift your knees. Open your thighs. It’s simple.”

It was impossible not to tremble. “I—”

“Do it.” Snape only tilted his head to one side, studying her. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

No. Not his hands. Hermione knew he’d touch her eventually—she could see it in his eyes, in the way his fingers curved into loose, grasping fists—but she wouldn’t allow it any sooner than she had to. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her thighs and parted them, planting her feet less than a feet apart.

Snape snorted. “Farther than that, Granger. You know what I want.”

Oh, yes, it was obvious what Snape wanted. Farther. Far enough to see...

Her heart clenching painfully, she shifted her feet further away from each other, until she was bared completely to Snape—until she felt the nearly nonexistent breeze of the dungeons move against her, absorbing her heat.

“Good.” Snape seemed transfixed, his eyes dark and still. His mouth was parted, as if he could breathe her in. “Touch yourself.”

Hermione stared up at him, shocked. _What_ did he just say?

When she remained unmoving for too long, Snape ran out of patience. “I said _touch_ yourself, Granger.” He twisted a sneer at her. “Masturbate. Surely you have some inkling of what I speak? Or are Gryffindors so saintly as to not be intimate with their own bodies?”

She flushed, trying not to think of the nights she spent under the covers, fingers sliding under her panties—or of how Ron had done it for her, a few times, with Hermione muffling quiet moans against his shoulder. But she didn’t want to think of that now, didn’t want to dirty it; this was _sick_ , what Snape was doing to her, making her do. It was nothing like what she had with Ron.

Hermione brushed a palm over her pubic hair, taking a strange comfort in its not-quite-softness, in its wild, curling warmth; she was determined to see this through, even if she had to pretend that Snape wasn’t watching her, wasn’t following her hand as it made its way between its legs.

“Yes...” Snape was slightly flushed now, and one of his arms moved, briefly, as if reaching out towards her. He stopped himself. “Stretch yourself for me. Wide and deep.”

Stretch herself. _.._ Oh, she really didn’t want to think about that, or what it meant, or what would follow it—so she simply sank two fingers into herself, biting her lip at the feeling of entry, at the sudden heat that reached up to her knuckles. Absorbing her.

“Tell me how you feel.” Snape’s voice seemed a little rougher, and Hermione had never heard it like that; it had always been smooth, impeccable, superior and hateful in every way. “Tell me how you feel around your fingers.”

Hermione swallowed. Her mind was empty; she didn’t know what he _meant_ , what he wanted her to say. Couldn’t he just fuck her?

“Tell me.” _That_ was a growl, and Hermione dared a quick glance at his face to see those black eyes narrowed again, glittering as if with a fever.

What she felt. Around her fingers. “Hot,” she managed, hating how her voice shook. “Wet.”

“Wet,” Snape echoed, stepping closer, gaze still fixed between her legs. “Of course.” He licked his lips, and for some reason that Hermione didn’t want to understand, it made her fingers curl inside her and her hips arch despite themselves. “Hold yourself open so that I can see just how wet you are.”

She hated him for this, _hated_...

“Use both your hands.”

Both. God— She pulled her fingers out, refusing to feel ashamed at how slick they were, and then she brought her other hand down, stretching the lips of her inner labia out on either side, holding them open like twin, slippery doors that bared her to him. Her clitoris. Her vagina. Her... her... _cunt_ , her mind whispered, and the word made her ears burn.

“Merlin.” Snape was unbuttoning his robes now, his hands almost meditatively slow, and _that_ was frightening enough to almost make Hermione forget how humiliated she was, exposed and vulnerable like this. “Do you know how _red_ you are?” The robes fell to the floor in a rustle of cloth, and Snape stepped forward yet again. “Little red riding hood, out for a walk...” His cruel mouth smiled, almost too pleased to be a predator’s. “And you’re wet, too, like the greedy Gryffindor slut you are. So wet I can see you gleam...”

Hermione’s jaw clenched in anger, but Snape only seemed to find that entertaining. He was dressed in a form-fitting waistcoat and black slacks, even more absurdly old-fashioned than anything Hermione could have imagined—but the way Snape _talked_ wasn’t old-fashioned, and Hermione knew she was foolish for thinking it, but she was still shocked that a teacher could talk like this.

Think like this.

Act—

She tensed when he drew close enough to be standing right over the bed, looking down at her. Only his face and his hands were visible from this angle, and his hands in particular seemed unusually large, raw-boned and intimidating, slightly yellowed against the white, starched cuffs of his shirt. It was difficult to breathe, suddenly, as the reality of what was going to happen crashed over her—and she stared up at those hands as if hypnotised, as if she dared not look away, as if he’d claw her apart with them if she tried.

“Yes, keep looking at me,” he whispered, and Hermione didn’t have the time to wonder when or if he’d taken off his shoes, because the mattress was sinking as first one, then two black-clad knees settled on the bed in front of her.

Between her legs.

“No...” Hermione found herself shaking, and when one of those hands touched her thigh, it startled her enough to make her jerk her leg away.

“Be _still_.” That hand caught her again, pulling her leg back into place—harsh now, not as careful as the first touch had been. “Where’s that much-vaunted courage of yours?” He leaned across to kiss her left knee, opening his mouth to bite it. Gently. “If you don’t cooperate, Granger, I can always bind you—but that _will_ be more painful for you, I promise, and much more...” He slid down further, biting her inner thigh instead. “Disappointing. For me.”

“I don’t think you’ll find it _disappointing_ ,” Hermione spat, before she could stop herself—and froze immediately, fearing that he would hit her, hurt her, as she was so sure he could. She let go of herself and brought her arms up quickly, crossed to deflect any blow—but instead Snape only pulled back, teeth bared, lips drawn in a smile that was more of a snarl.

His voice was a soft murmur when he spoke. “How very perceptive of you, Miss Granger. Just what I’d expect of my star student.”

Then he was parting her thighs even further, applying a surprisingly light pressure on them with the heels of both hands—and his head sank out of sight, until Hermione would have to raise her own head to see him, not that she wanted to.

_God, is he going to..._

She felt her muscles quiver when Snape’s hair brushed her lower stomach, when his warm breath stirred the hair of her pubis. “Please...” Her throat seemed to be closing over, but she managed to force the words out. “Please don’t.” _Just fuck me. Just get it over with. Don’t make me—don’t make me feel—_

But Snape gave no sign that he’d heard her. His thumbs ran in slow, firm circles on both sides of her cunt—concentric, deepening spirals so close to her centre that she felt a strange buzz gathering there, building.

“Stop,” she gasped when Snape kissed her, not erring, _right_ on the tender hood of her clitoris—because her labia hadn’t closed completely yet, open as she’d held it for so long. “Please...”

Of course, she had known that begging wouldn’t work; she’d known it the moment Snape had demanded this of her, his fingers tighter around his quill than they should have been. She’d known, but she couldn’t help herself now—couldn’t help but beg for it to stop when a startlingly hot tongue licked her there, when a surprisingly liquid mouth parted and sucked, so gentle and persistent that she felt her clit swell despite itself, throbbing in time with her pulse, sending deep, wracking tremors of heat up her abdomen. She felt silk at her fingertips and realised that she was clutching his shoulders, his waistcoat. “God, stop...”

Her hips were moving. She tried to stop them, she _tried_ , but something was giving way in the molten core of her—crumbling in the face of the near-painful fire being stoked at the tip of Snape’s tongue, making her wetter, slicker, making her clench hungrily inside. “Please...”

This time, when Snape pulled away, she couldn’t suppress a whine—and she was horrified to hear it, horrified that her last _please_ hadn’t been followed by _stop_ , that she had arched one more time, helplessly, as if for more.

Snape chuckled quietly, and Hermione didn’t think she’d ever despised a sound more in her life.

“F—Damn you—can’t you just—”

“Hm?” Snape was brushing his mouth across her navel now, leaving a damp trail of her own juices behind him.

“Just—finish it.” She hated the fact that she sounded like she needed it, but she only needed it to be finished. It wasn’t like she wanted—wanted—

“Really? Flattering as I find your... eagerness,” he dipped his tongue into her navel, making her hips lift and twist again, “I rather prefer enjoying my meals at leisure. And a woman,” she felt him smile against her skin, “is a meal of many courses.”

She could have hexed him. She would have. Wanted to. Damn all those rules about professors and not—not—damn them all, because rules meant _nothing_ , decency meant _nothing_ , and she was disgusted at herself for this, for responding like this, for betraying Ron. Like. This—

“Oh...”

Snape made his meticulous way across her, slowly sucking and biting as if every inch of her were succulent. Her skin was shivering as if licked raw, as if licked _away_ by the deliberate, thorough strokes of Snape’s cat-like tongue, rough and hot and constantly moving— baring her nerves to the trembling air, making them sing with sensation. It almost stung, this fever-flush against the occasional, glancing touches of Snape’s cool waistcoat—and the wet, folded pocket of heat between her legs was swollen and pulsing, the sheets soaking quietly between her thighs. Her hands fisted on either side of her in a vain attempt to keep her grounded, to keep her from touching him. Urging him. When his hair brushed her nipples they hardened; she turned her head aside at that, biting her tongue to stifle her moans.

_A meal of many courses_ , Snape had said, and she _was_ a meal to him—he was _eating_ her, devouring her, and Hermione wasn’t sure if there would be anything left of her. By the end of this.

“You’re wonderfully sensitive.” Snape breathed across one of those nipples, a smirk in his voice as it stiffened even further. “It’s a pity I can only have you once.”

“You wouldn’t even have me once,” Hermione gritted out, doing her best not to say _please_ again, “if I had a say in it.”

“Ah, but you do have a say in it. You said yes, didn’t you?” He sucked that nipple into his mouth, not releasing it until Hermione felt a stray strand of saliva escape and roll down the curve of her breast, leaving a tingling trail behind it. “Lovely. Ripe as a berry, and just as sweet.” He slid his tongue under her breast, lifting it, tasting the sweat gathered there—and Hermione shuddered, breath escaping on something that was far too close to a whimper. “Not that I’ll be satisfied with a yes. I’ll have you saying much more than that, never fear.”

“I hate you,” Hermione whispered, when Snape was done tending to her other breast, leaving both nipples feeling heavy, sore, inflamed. Their heat seemed somehow connected to Hermione’s ache far below, her clitoris as hard and erect as the rest of her cunt was soft. “I hate you...”

“I know,” Snape replied, moving up to touch his lips to her jaw, her mouth. “I know.” And then he kissed her.

Hermione would have bitten him, if that had been an option—if she hadn’t known, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Snape wasn’t the sort of man who gave people second chances. _I had planned to use you gently. Don’t make me reconsider._ So she let him open her mouth, feeling repulsed at the taste of her own salt on Snape’s tongue, her own... oh, god. She pulled away as soon as she thought was reasonable, but the pulse jumped in her throat when she caught sight of his eyes, growing cold in displeasure.

“Such a hypocritical whore,” he hissed, before his eyes warmed again—and the swiftness of that change startled her, until she felt his fingers, unnervingly familiar now, slip between her thighs to press lightly against her cunt.

Her eyes widened.

“So _very_ wet. Dripping, even.” He pushed a long, bony finger into her, as inexorable as it was gentle—and the pad of his thumb nestled against her clit, as knowing as if he’d had her before. Or a dozen other girls just like her. “Did you imagine I’d simply fuck you and let you go? A quick tumble in the Potions master’s hay?” The thumb _pressed_ , so cruel and so true that a flash of searing heat shot through her. “But I think not, Miss Granger. I expect a far greater return on my investments.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her hips bucking as Snape’s finger curved suddenly, vicious as a claw, finding that spot within her. “Oh!”

“I won’t let you out of here,” he whispered, “until I fuck you. And I won’t _fuck_ you,” he sneered, “until you beg for it.”

Damn him. Damn him. _Damn_ him— “Stop this,” she panted as he added a second finger, using the nail of his thumb to lift her clit slightly. “Please.”

“Now why would I do that? You’re so very pleasing to watch.” He tilted his head downwards, watching his fingers slide in and out of her. “Look at that. Shining with need. You _want_ this, you clever little Mudblood slut.”

She snarled at that, trying to force his arm away with both hands—but Snape only laughed quietly, adding another finger to the others inside her, parting them all until she felt stretched inside, pinned and fucked and pierced until her sounds changed in timbre. It almost _did_ hurt now, it felt so good and so—so hateful—but Snape seemed to know just how to press his fingers in, just how to angle them, bringing to mind unwanted images of Snape doing this to other students, other schoolgirls, blackmailing them year after year.

“I could put my wand in here, you know. Cast such hexes... Make you feel the most _exquisite_ pain, until you came and came and came again.” His mouth was at her ear, his voice dark as smoke. Soft. “You’d grow to love it, in time. You’d cry for it. Pray for it.”

That nail of his slid over the hood of her clit, flicking it until tears came to her eyes. “Stop...”

“You’d be so open and hungry for it, then... You wouldn’t be able to _come_ until I hurt you, until _anyone_ hurt you. I’d have to tie you down to make sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself.” Careful teeth skimmed along her throat. “Just another Death Eater pet, good for nothing but fucking.”

Hermione was terrified by what he was saying, nearly nauseous at the thought of it—but her body didn’t seem to be listening to her, grinding up to meet his hand, her clit burning painfully at what he was doing to it. His fingers weren’t wide enough inside her, weren’t— “Please. Please. Just—”

“Yes?” A gentling of those thrusts, as if in reward. His thumb relented.

“Do it,” Hermione said miserably, rocking upwards despite herself. She deliberately didn’t think of Ron, of how he’d feel if he heard her saying this, if he saw her writhing under Snape’s hands. “Please.”

“It?” The thumb returned, coaxing slowly this time. Making her gasp. “What on earth is that?”

“ _Fuck_ —you know—”

“My, my, Miss Granger. I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you use foul language. In front of anyone, let alone a professor.” Another kiss at her jaw, sickeningly tender. “I’d take points, if I didn’t feel so generous today.”

Generous? Hermione would have laughed, if she hadn’t felt so close to an outright breakdown—she wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if she started, or maybe crying, and somewhere in the corner of her mind a cold little voice said that she should just say what he wanted, because at least this would be _over_ then, and she’d go back to her dorm, and she’d… she’d…

“Fuck me,” she whispered, closing her eyes to deny the truth of what she was saying, the fact that she _needed_ it. “Fuck me, please...”

There was a moment of silence, in which all Hermione heard was Snape’s breathing, suddenly heavier, tighter than it had been before. Then there was the sound of fabric rustling, a murmured contraception charm—and two hands were at her thighs, hard and cruel. Lifting them up and apart. “That’s good. That’s my girl—”

Hermione wanted to pull away at that, because she wasn’t his _girl_ , she wasn’t his _anything_ —but Snape was bearing down on her now, her legs folding back to accommodate him, her ankles going around his waist. She opened her eyes then, enveloped in a sudden panic—but _his_ eyes were closed this time, his hair swinging as his head hung forward, arms balancing on either side of her as he rose above her and pushed in.

 _—In_.

Oh.

A strange, choked sound tore through the air, and Hermione recognised it as her own. She could feel Snape’s erection sliding into her, inch by thick, aching, pulsing inch—and she stared up at Snape, watching his strangely tight, strangely distant face, winding her fists at his arms, in his long-sleeved shirt. _Fuck me_.

As if he’d heard that, Snape blinked his eyes open to look down at her, and Hermione found that she couldn’t breathe when she met his gaze. Black, blind, blank: as if he were soulless, mindless, driven only by the slow, deepening thrust of his cock, of his own flesh inside hers.

This wasn’t the way Ron did it to her—quick and trembling and eager, apologising all the while. It wasn’t— _no don’t think about Ron don’t think about Ron don’t_ —

“Look at me,” Snape’s voice rasped, as if from very far away, and Hermione looked at his thin, ugly mouth. Speaking. “Look at me...”

 _There’s nothing else to look at_ , she would have said, but then Snape pulled back and suddenly pushed in again, hard, and Hermione heard herself make a loud, startled moan.

“You wanted me to fuck you,” Snape said. “You _wanted_ it...”

Before she could think of how ridiculous it was, his saying that, he thrust in again, and again—harsh and even and deeper every time, making sure to tilt upwards so that he struck that spot within her, making her twist her hands in his sleeves, making her push _back_. “Yes...”

She wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying anymore, or even if she was saying anything at all; she only felt the wet, clinging pull of her inner skin against his cock when he pulled back, and the sudden, gasping give of it when he thrust back _in_. The pace grew every time she tugged on Snape’s arms, so she did it again and again until Snape was _fucking_ her, riding her so that the bed creaked in time with it and she felt the sheets grow hot with friction beneath her back, scorching her, the sensation just an outer heat to match the one building inside her, filling her. She was disintegrating in that heat, burning to ashes as her passage grew slick and soaked—making her clench around Snape until he groaned, until he pushed her legs out even further, collapsing onto her and fucking her even harder, his mouth open against her throat, her nipples brushing his waistcoat.

“Ah...” It was Snape’s turn to moan now, long and low, his hips pressed tight against her as she felt him come—his hair damp and sticky against her ear, his semen hot and startling inside of her. He didn’t stop thrusting, either—small, brutal, shallow thrusts until he’d emptied himself completely—and it was in those few, incandescent moments that Hermione suddenly felt her world spiral as well, narrowing to a sharp, bright point in which she wasn’t aware of tossing back her head and crying out, of finding his silk-clad back with her fingers, of digging her nails in and scratching futilely as he gasped one final time and rocked to a gradual halt.

Finally, the flood of light that had risen inside her peaked and ebbed away—and there was another period of silence, this one much longer, as Hermione lay there with the ceiling coming back into focus, blurred with tears. Her cunt was still tingling, in the way that meant she could come again if she touched herself—and she felt herself twitching around Snape’s cock, feeling it soften inside her, as Snape shifted only slightly to pull it out. The feeling was utterly filthy and wet, utterly—

“Well.” That was Snape’s voice, much closer to normal now. A little... odd, somehow, but with enough of that familiar haughtiness. “That was... most pleasant, Miss Granger. You have my thanks.” A surprisingly gentle hand brushed her hip, and Snape’s trousers grazed the backs of her thighs as he drew away. “I trust you enjoyed yourself?”

Hermione pushed him off, and watched his mouth curl in amusement when she deliberately didn’t look at his uncovered crotch.

“Oh, no need to play coy. What would Weasley say, I wonder, if he saw you come the way you did? Does he make you come at all, or does he finish too quickly to manage it?”

She pulled a sheet around herself and stood up, not looking Snape in the eye. Comparing himself to a _boy_ , oh, that was fair of Snape, wasn’t it? “I need to... clean myself,” Hermione said, refusing to answer any of his stupid questions, to play any of his sickening games. “I’m taking my wand. And leaving.”

Nothing for a moment, in which Hermione felt the atmosphere tense inexplicably—but then Snape spoke again. Much colder, as if it no longer amused him to have her here. “Of course you may leave. Our deal’s over, as you recall; you may use your wand to cast a few hygiene spells.”

It occurred to Hermione to turn around and hex him the moment she got her wand, perhaps to use _Sectumsempra_ , that spell she’d seen scrawled in the margins of Harry’s book—but when she glanced backwards Snape was sitting up slowly, a strange, guarded stillness on his face, an expression so unlike him that Hermione almost didn’t recognise him for a moment.

 _Yes, that’s a clever idea, Hermione. As though hexing a teacher wouldn’t get you expelled, after you’ve gone through all this trouble to_ not _get expelled_.

Snape didn’t taunt her, oddly enough, when she blushed and stumbled over her sheet; in fact, he said nothing at all, and Hermione left his bedroom for his office, where her clothes were. The only thought in her mind after she cleaned herself was that she’d burn that damn book as soon as she found it—incinerate it, because doing _that_ wasn’t a crime. It was good sense. Snape wouldn’t be able to use it against her again, or threaten her with Harry’s academic performance. Or Ron’s. They’d survive without it if they had to, and they _would_ have to once she told them of Snape’s suspicions.

She refused to feel ashamed for achieving orgasm at Snape’s hands, because he’d forced her into it—and she wouldn’t let this affect what she had with Ron, because Ron was worlds away from this. Purer than Snape. Sweeter than him. Everything she wanted, and everything she cared about.

“I hate you,” Hermione murmured to the walls one last time, closing the office door behind her.

She never flinched from Snape’s eyes in the months that followed—and it didn’t escape her notice that, the longer she failed to look ashamed, the longer Snape took to look at her at all.

 

 

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
